Reaction Formation
by Steelcircle
Summary: Alkali, a Decepticon chemist and artist, is annoyed by having to work with the Constructicons.


**Reaction Formation**

This one's been a better model than I've had in ages. I nabbed him last battle, right after one of the Seekers picked off his buddy. He'd ducked behind him to save himself, and he had such a look of guilt on his face when his friend bought it. I couldn't let that go to waste. Startled as he was, it was easy enough for me to impale him with my pick, a sweet blow right through his armour and into the fuel tank, and get him well and paralyzed, suspended in his moment of shame. The rest of the battle was a mess, and I was fixing flyboys for days afterwards, but that one Autobot made it all worth it.

His health is fading; I can see the grey creeping into his colour even now, but the data I got about guilt is priceless. It's a wholly alien emotion to most Decepticons, where there is no wrong, except being stupid enough to get punished. I've been having real problems approximating guilt in my work, but the information I got off him has opened up a whole new kind of subject matter for my works. Even now, I've mixed up a cocktail I call 'Unwilling Repentance' that I'm eager to try out, just as soon as I figure out which of the neutrals, Autobots, and disowned Decepticons I have stored away will make the best canvas for the piece. An Autobot's the obvious choice, yielding but irrationally principled as they are, but I could get a really interesting effect if I picked one of the war breed. What could drive a Decepticon to remorse? That's what my audience would be asking. Do I want to go for a sure-fire crowd-pleaser with an Autobot or something a bit more philosophic with a disgraced Decepticon today?

My choice is interrupted. Simoon, my lord, appears on the view-screen. I attend to the view-screen quickly, as I cannot leave Simoon waiting. He has been a most generous lord, allowing me to do as I want most of the time, so long as I mostly fulfil my few duties as base technician and tailor a few of my artworks to his exacting specifications. I cannot risk his disapproval. If he frowns upon me, I'll be busted down to janitor or killed, depending on his mood, whether he feels crueller or colder. So I play with my life, as the pet artist of a conniving officer, and it vexes me to be so beholden, but he likes my art and allows me that. I couldn't serve someone who expected and wanted nothing more than a technician out of me.

"Commander Shockwave has selected this outpost for an experimental rebuild," Simoon informs me, his voice detached as ever, and his word choice backing it up. This outpost, rather than my outpost, as if his current position is meaningless to him. So he always is: all languid grace and frigid decorum, and all a mask belying his true celerity and ruthlessness. Knowing him, there's little wonder how he obtained his command post. "The work crew has arrived. You are to be at their disposal for the entirety of the proceedings."

"Understood," I answer, bowing slightly. His syntax does not bode well for me - _disposal_? To call in an entire work crew suggests that I am incompetent, unable to complete Shockwave's designs even with a few individuals called in for help. There's the brighter possibility that Simoon merely seeks to strike fear into me, as he does into so many of subordinates, and they've only called in a whole work crew because of the great importance of this endeavour. Well, I can hope, and if push comes to shove, I can always make things unpleasant for the gang they called in and improve my own image by tarnishing the competition's. There's nothing quite like having the foremech take a nail gun to his laser core in a sudden fit of depression to ruin a crew's reputation.

Simoon's image flickers out. It's obvious enough where to look for my unwanted guests. A short jaunt out of my room and down the halls takes me to the ground-level service entrance. Even here, the ceilings are vaulted, and the room is constructed of an indigo metal much darker than the standard periwinkle. The lights are small, varicoloured, and placed high, giving a general feeling of gloom and strictness. Their intersecting colours give rise to murkiness, and their scanty light is miserly rationed for impact. They don't half-illuminate the intricate metalworking that decorates the ceiling, rendering what can be seen of the decorations mysterious and foreboding. It's all very classic Constructor work, and Simoon's quite fond of it, shade-loving sneak that he is. I wonder, are the Constructors the crew they sent, dispatched to revise their own handiwork? They're fabulously talented, for all that their style's so restricted, so if they _are_ the ones here, I've messed up big time.

Then, I see the lot, and I wish that the Constructors _were_ the ones here. Ach, these guys are even bigger than the Constructors, literally, though that's not hard, and metaphorically, which is a real trick. By Darkmount, command sent in the _Constructicons_. The only builder who could hope to match them in skill, creativity, and sheer artistry was Grapple and signing on with the Autobots has all but killed him as an artist. Last I heard, he was designing pre-fab bunkers. If that isn't a soul-crushing waste of time for a mech of Grapple's calibre, I don't know what is. The Autobots are barbaric when it comes to art, doing away with it as wasteful. They've cut out their own souls and tossed them to void, the fools.

So the Constructicons have arrived. I can't imagine where I fouled up badly enough to deserve this. They are the premiere construction crew of the entire planet, let alone the Decepticons, and they're the epitome of teamwork. The only use I'll be to them is showing them to the jobsite. I announce, trying to keep my tone as flat as possible to keep from giving away my ill-will, "Lord Simoon sent me to assist you."

"Just you?" Scrapper asks. I'd be a criminally negligent artist if I didn't recognize him, though he's more known by omission. There's never a picture of him, only of his creations, in the reviews. He never attends the galas and gathers. He's more a process that puts out marvels than an actual entity in his own right.

"Just me," I say as casually as possible, as if defying him to prove me wrong. Rare is the Decepticon technician found alone. They're in work crews or, if they're communications spooks, surrounded by their little subordinates. If there's one alone, he either wasn't a technician from the start, or there's something wrong with him. My blocky design and the natural way I wear it says, odds are, that I've always been a tech. So there's something wrong with me, in their sight. It couldn't be that I just like to keep to myself. "Where to?"

"The power plant of the outpost. If this is standard Constructor work, that ought to be down a few levels," Scrapper replies.

I nod. He's right, of course. I lead them to the lifts, saying nothing to them and they nothing to me. They talk amongst themselves, mostly discussing their surroundings. I hear snatches of their comments. "...too overdone..." "...inauthentic horror..." "...neat trick with the flying buttresses..."

Also, they're watching me, trying to figure out just what's wrong with me that I don't have a group. With the Decepticon tendency to seek out weakness for possible exploitation and the technician's habit of spotting flaws for later revision, they could hardly do anything else. Now, these guys are bright. I wonder, how long will it take them to figure it out?

The lift reaches its stop, and we get off. They make decently polite show of following me to the power plant. Now, this is where I can be remotely useful. I can open the door. They obviously don't have the codes. I suppose Simoon's cautiousness is betting the better of him. That, or they won't be here long. If the job's that quick, though, I ought to have been able to do it myself. No, no, these are the Constructicons, and they don't call them in for nothing. There must be something more to their assignment here.

The Constructicons set into their task, whatever that may be. It's disgusting to watch them, really. They work so well together, it's as if they know each other's thoughts. Maybe they do. The Constructicons are gestalt, after all, the logical conclusion of such unity. Where is the randomness in that? Where is the room for the change that is so vital to our kind? I bet not one of them has felt anything new or unexpected in millennia.

I stay out of their way, mostly. They certainly don't need me interfering in their carefully balanced equation. The only use I have now is to explain the intricacies and quirks of the machinery here. Despite my devotion to my art, I haven't done a bad job of tending the machinery all this time, and I know its ins and outs. The Constructicons catch on quick, though I couldn't expect anything less from them. In fact, I'd be disappointed if they didn't. Decepticons don't earn the kind of respect that the Constructicons get without earning it, one way or the other. No good comes of rewarding weakness.

As near as I can tell, they're making some complex alterations to the power output systems. I don't quite understand what they're doing, but I'll have to figure it out eventually when the systems inevitably break down. The Constructicons pause, as if something's gone awry. Now, they argue and bicker amongst themselves, but there's a carefully choreographed pattern to it. Fill in the blanks. There's something about not enough buffer in the amount of feedstock - feedstock for what? Then, they turn to me, and the drum-backed one who must be Mixmaster asks, "You have access to the base's chemical supplies, yes?"

"You think they will have what we need? This place seems rather primitive," scoffs the one who must be Hook. If the crane kibble didn't belie his identity, his attitude would.

Mixmaster sniffs and remarks, "That one's got the scent of advanced polycyclic paralytics all over her. Of course they'll have what we need."

"You mean that _my_ supply closet will have what you need," I correct.

"Well, yes." Mixmaster shrugged, unperturbed by the correction. He must get enough of that from Hook. Oh yes, we Decepticons have no shame.

"Want me to make a supply run or do you need to pick it out yourself?" I offer. I know that I can find whatever they need and faster than if they fumble for it themselves, but pride is a funny thing.

Mixmaster glances at Scrapper questioningly for a moment and then decides, "Better if I do it, I think."

"Come on, then." The bulldozer, Bonecrusher, I should suppose, follows Mixmaster. Members of teams like these are never seen alone in their natural state. I'd sooner see chlorine by itself than one of their ilk. Through the halls, up the lift, and through another set of halls takes me back to where I started and the two Constructicons to my workshop and living quarters. There are a few things out, mostly in-progress works and, of course, my delightful Autobot model. I should probably set him up with a restorative infusion soon and let him take a break off the paralytics if I want to get much more out of him. Bonecrusher gawks around, as if he's never seen emotive sculpture before. Perhaps he hasn't.

Mixmaster knows that it is immediately, chemist that he is. I wouldn't be shocked at all if the aroma of paralytic that clings to me despite the solvent showers gave my art away to him long before now. He gives me a faint inquiring look. My artistry is certainly a piece of the puzzle that I present but doesn't explain why I'm alone. Then, the task at hand returns to him, and he demands, "The supply closet is where?"

"Ach, this door," I answer, pressing the code in the keypad to slide away the door.

"Enough chemicals to drug an army in here," Mixmaster observes approvingly. There's a certain bright-opticed look to him, the kind a gun nut gets in an armoury. He's occupied.

Bonecrusher is not. He paces around, restless in unfamiliar territory possessed by a stranger. No fear shows; his bearing suggests that he considers himself more confident invader than unsure foreigner. Few are so fearless in the core of my domain. The stench of stale terror and muted agony permeates and pervades here. It's even sunk into the energy patterns of the place from long habituation. Such are the side-effects of my line of sculpture. Thus, my gallery is quite far away from my workshop as to avoid such emotional taint, and up high as to make appreciation of my work easier for my height-loving lord. Ach, would it kill a flyboy to touch the ground?

Bonecrusher pokes around, rudely nosy or perhaps just oblivious to personal space of others. Destruction can go anywhere, after all. He pauses, considering the one finished piece here, the one that I carried to its logical conclusion. Though the sculpture died from the strain my art imposed on him, as they all do, I fixed all the components in place, before he died, instead of waiting for his death and smelting his corpse, as I usually do. A dead body, no matter how well-preserved, has only a fraction of the expressive value of a living one. Besides, keeping a sculpture after his light has gone out goes against the ephemeral nature of emotion. Still, I have my reasons. Bonecrusher reaches a conclusion about the piece and announces, "He was from the same design line as you."

"He did. He was my work-mate," I admit, unrepentant.

Bonecrusher gives me a good, long stare. Killing a work-mate isn't unheard of, but it's fairly rare. Slaying your closest allies generally does not bode well for one's continued survival, as it suggests a certain lack of critical mental faculties and deprives one of the safety in numbers. In any case, a healthy team will be comprised of individuals who can get along decently well or at least put aside their grievances. When there's killing going on, the team's neither well nor are the component members of the team. Not to be daunted, Bonecrusher asks, "He deserved it?"

Many modes of interpretation present themselves for that query, but I answer, "Yeah, he did." That's truer than saying that I'm a team-killing bootleg, which is one way to take me.

"Deserved it because he'd make a nice sculpture?" Such I did not expect from him. It's unusually cutting from one who seems to be such a blunt instrument.

"Deserved it because he ditched me when the other member of our crew died." I'm surprised at my own bitterness, but it's there in my name.

"Sloppy of him. Loose ends like that have nasty way of biting ya in the back." Bonecrusher scowls, and it makes his face look plain ugly. "No crew would take you in?"

He's rather accurate, as no one wants a lysin in their group, but I have my pride. "I wouldn't be taken in. I should have been named Neon."

Mixmaster returns from the depths of the supply closet and hears just that, so he asks jestingly, "You form bonds with fluorine under extreme circumstances?"

Leave it to Cybertron's greatest chemist to think of that. I, for one, still can't get my compounds of neon to work very well. Figures. I have no recourse but to change the subject. "You got what you needed?"

He nods, clutching a number of bottles. I look at the labels, trying to figure out what he could do with those chemicals. Considering his reputation, anything. A nanotech substrate would be my best guess. It's odd that they'd need so much of it. Nanotech's best for fine work.

I don't expect to get an answer, but I ask anyway, "So, what's this all about?"

"Ah, that would be telling," Mixmaster answers, shaking his head mock-disapprovingly

"Ach, I figured as much." No one tells anyone anything around this place. "Is it something the poor, stupid chemist from the sticks can figure out?"

"Doubt it. It's rather far out of your field of specialty." Mixmaster smiles, not kindly.

"So, when this thing inevitably breaks down, I can call you all to fix it for me, eh?" I try to make that sound more friendly than I feel, but it's hard.

Mixmaster and Bonecrusher look at each other and break out laughing. The demolitionist explains a little, "If it breaks down, you've got bigger problems to worry about." Mixmaster glares at him, as if he's said too much, but Bonecrusher just swats him. "Aw, shove off. That's not going to hurt anything. Everyone knows 'experimental' means 'liable to turn into a big mess'."

_Tell me about it_, comes to mind but the words die unspoken, in poor taste as they are. We return to the power plant, and my observations of their work leave me no less mystified than before. They finish up, and Long Haul comments, "At least there're no leftovers to take back."

"We're finished here," Scrapper says, finalizing the end. He and his crew usher themselves out; they remember the way, and the doors aren't code-locked from the inside. I'm primed to get back to 'Unwilling Repentance', but Simoon will want to know what the Constructicons have done to the outpost. I have to put in an at least cursory check over their alterations to the power plant machinery to satisfy his appetite for information. Well, it certainly looks like they've set up a nanotech factory in here, but I can't see any obvious output but more nanites. Ach, I'm sure it makes sense to them and Shockwave. That done, all I have to do is file a report for my lord, and I can return to my true calling. Spires, I hate uninvited company.

**The End**


End file.
